It Was Not the End
by triciasama
Summary: (SSRL SLASH) The war was nearing its end, and Dumbledore had left them to their own devices. Lupin decides to have a talk with Snape just before he journeys to what may be his last trip to the Dark Side.


It Was Not the End

* * *

Disclaimer: All characters, name, places and anything Harry Potter related belong to JK Rowling and the respective companies. Absolutely no profit is being made from this piece and it is strictly for leisure.

Summary: The war was nearing its end, and Dumbledore had left them to their own devices. Hopelessness and doubt hit all of them hard, especially Severus Snape. Lupin decides to have a talk with him just before he journeys to what may be his last trip to the Dark Side.

* * *

Sometimes war brought out the worst in people, sometimes it brought out the best. But many a time, it brings out suffering and uncertainty, hopelessness in the most optimistic of heart.

Imagine if the world was crumbling around you, and your only support was suddenly pried from your fragile grip, never to be seen again. Imagine if everywhere you turned you only saw the darkest of the darkness, the ominous death and destruction that was hurtling headlong towards your crouched, helpless body. You hear crying, and then it was heard no more. You hear screaming, and then there was none. You gasp in the grit-filled air, knowing that the next breath would be your last….

War is not forgivable. It tarnishes the souls of those who managed to survive, and destroys those who didn't. It even withers the hardest, most unfeeling soul…

Including Severus Snape.

* * *

A lone figure swept through the moonlight-swathed grass, the sharp edges serrated and wickedly pointed in the mischievous shadows. The crystal-cold air stung his lungs as he hurried along, unconsciously wrapping his traveling cloak tightly around his shivering body. To an ignorant observer, it may seem as if this particular person was just having a rejuvenating midnight stroll to relieve his insomnia, or maybe even hurrying back home from a particularly rowdy party. Yet they say truth is stranger than fiction, and it was true in this case.

This particular man was Severus Snape, and he was making his last journey towards his death.

The Dark Mark on his arm had burned not too long ago, when he was in Grimmauld Place having his dinner, which Molly had kindly left behind for him, alone in the kitchen in the ungodly hours of the night. The fire was burning low, casting its shadows on the cold stone walls when his left forearm was seized with the pain he knew so well. He had been expecting it, so it was not much of a surprise to him. Ignoring the slight smarting, he merely spooned the stew delicately with his utensils so calmly it was as if he were just enjoying his meal before retiring.

The second burn caused him to grimace, both in shock and in pain. The searing pain was not just tightening around the hideous mark branded into his charred skin, but radiating throughout his arm. He dropped the spoon with a clang, clutching his arm as beads of cold sweat formed on his pallid forehead.

A third, paralyzing sear seized him, as if bent on torturing him even before he had submitted himself before the Dark Lord. He fought to keep control of his thoughts as his body writhed in stabs of pain more intense than before, again and again.

_Four. Five. Six. _

The chair crashed to the floor with utmost force, followed by a sickening thud as the man fell to the cold kitchen floor, teeth gnashing over ashen lips as he bit his robe to keep from screaming aloud in pain.

_Seven._

His thoughts were blurred from the agony, and it took him much effort to keep count of the wrenching pain that was forced upon him. He took in a shuddering breath, steeling himself for the next bout of hell as he crouched alone in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place.

_Eight. Nine. Ten._

The blinding heat stabbed every nerve in his body, causing him to convulse violently, a flailing hand hitting a nearby table and upsetting the precariously perched vase onto the floor. The glass shattered, and the white lily that had escaped the confinement of the vase slid alongside the water trail, pooling at his feet like an impromptu funeral offering. He winced as the last of the pain left him exhausted, lying helplessly on the cold kitchen floor, providing him false security that the torture session was actually over. Yet he knew better, it never ended at ten, it always ended at-

_Eleven._

He didn't even flinch as the last wave of hell struck him with the utmost force. He knew it was the end. He knew what his master was telling him. That it was already his eleventh hour. That Severus Snape was going to die today, tonight.

Lucius Malfoy had betrayed him. He had made an empty promise as he lay in his deathbed, telling him so sincerely that he had silenced Pettigrew very well indeed, that Voldermort would never come to know of his double-faced duty.

And he had trusted that fool.

It was no use to warn the rest of the Order about his situation, especially and only because that Dumbledore had just perished fighting in the last battle against the dark side. They would just ask him to stay, not to answer to the summons that signified his death. They would lock him up, just like they did to that pathetic old dog Sirius. They would not understand that, if he did not submit himself to him, they all would perish together in a sea of flames and torture.

No, they couldn't know.

He would answer to his death himself.

* * *

So he had slipped out unnoticed, slinging on his traveling cloak only as a second thought. Out into the dimly lit streets of Grimmauld Place, where mangy cats perched upon shredded rubbish bags and the slick asphalt was frosted over slightly in the budding of winter. He turned and strode towards the more badly-kept part of the neighbourhood, finally out to the pitch black plains of the British countryside. He was not used to journeying by foot, the most primitive way of travel. Yet it was war, and apparition was too dangerous to be attempted and too easily detected, and broomsticks could hardly be kept out of the eyes of the most seasoned spies.

The night was cold, the thick silence of war suffocating the air. He swept through the empty countryside, blatantly noting the celestially opaque crescent moon escorted by wisps of dull, saturated clouds, the crunch of frosted slush beneath his feet, anything other than reminiscing about his past life. It was a bloody cliché, how everyone says that their life flashed before their eyes when they are caught in impending death. Nothing in his life was worth wistful recollections. Not the time he believed he had fallen in love for the first time, because that ended with added scars in his battered soul. Not the time Dumbledore had forgiven him and made him one of their side, because that was merely out of sympathy and a vague shadow of the fatherliness that he never had.

Severus Snape was just a thing. A thing to be used, a thing that needs minimal concern to make sure that he was functioning properly enough to complete his duties, a thing that does not need love.

He spat silently in disgust. He had allowed himself to wade through the sentimental, nostalgic whatnot again. If he was going to die, he wanted to go in his best possible way, not with a restless mind teeming with brutal thoughts of his past.

With that, he concentrated yet again at his grim surroundings, now increasingly colder as the prime of the night settled in. An owl hooted, and he could hear a slight rustle of grass. Most likely a harmless field rat being seized as prey, he knew, but he turned cautiously as well, glancing into the darkness for any sign of enemy.

Nothing.

Slipping his hand into his robes for his wand, he brandished it haughtily as he continued on his way, his gait as stoic and elegant as it was. Another rustle alerted his suspicions, and he swiveled back on his heels, dim green sparkles spitting out of his wand.

The crack of dead branch echoed throughout the crisp air, and Snape gritted his teeth, skimming the darkened night for any slight sign of the unknown creature, but he could find none.

His heart beating at the unwanted vulnerability the unseen stalker was casting over him, he backed up blindly. It was then the clouds shifted from the constant breath of winds, and the wan moonlight was cast upon a vague but immensely familiar face.

There was a startled intake of breath. Then a soft sigh of relief.

"Oh, bloody hell, Lupin. You could have chosen a more inconvenient time to spring upon me like that. If I had been a bit more liberal with my wand, Merlin knows what could have happened."

"I'm sorry. I know, you can't be too careful there days," Lupin apologized quietly, his expression mingling between apprehension and elation as he pursed his lips and flung a loose end of his traveling cloak over his shoulder. The crickets chirped in the silvery air as the two men glanced at each other warily, both unsure and slightly breathless from the unexpected encounter.

"Why are you following me?" Snape finally voiced, wand still unconsciously in the air.

"I thought you might need some… company."

"And you expect me to believe that?" he scoffed.

"Even misery needs company sometimes too, you know?" the werewolf retorted softly.

"And what makes you think I'm in… misery?"

"I deduce that you are, in fact, a human being. The war has affected everyone, Severus, now more than ever… ever since Dumbledore died." Snape could hear the slight rustle of robes as the other took the few tentative steps towards him, stopping the considerate few steps before him. He had left the sanctuary of the jigsaw shadows of the whispering trees, and could now be seen clearly under the weak moonlight. He was weary, exhausted even, although the will that held him through was still visible under the clouded amber eyes.

"A mere generalization," he finally replied.

Lupin sighed. Not with resentment, nor malelovance, but just a mild release of breath as he pondered. He did not want to lecture him like a schoolchild, nor explain to him like a stubbornly ignorant gentleman. He wanted to _know_.

"Severus, you're trekking your way towards the enemy this very moment, who now know that you have been traitorous towards their cause. People don't just choose their sides anymore, they merely blend in the shades of grey, a snake underneath the trodden grass, waiting to strike. Dumbledore, the only person who trusted you from the very beginning, has left us. Just try and tell me… just tell me you don't feel anything."

There was another pause as Snape calculated the words, mouth slightly open as if bent on confession, but his tongue was bent back in pride. A blink of an eye, and he decided to comply with his mouth instead.

"Very well. If you must know… I really do not feel anything. I have lost touch of that emotion some time ago, pity isn't it?" he almost snarled in return, tone vehement as he spat out the words like they left a bitter aftertaste on his palate. He tilted his chin upwards, as if daring Lupin to reply with one of his bleeding rational answers. But he didn't. He could not reply.

"Now let me go on my way."

As the black robes swished away in the darkness, Lupin suddenly found his voice, lifting a hand in silent protest as he beckoned to the retreating figure.

"For once, Severus, don't anticipate the worst."

Snape stopped, turning to him with just a hint of an annoyed smirk on his lips.

"I find that rather intriguing, I'm afraid. You see, anticipating the best would always bring disappointment, and anticipating the worst… brings me relief."

The werewolf was just about to reassure him, to comfort him with the words he had ready on his tongue, but Snape seemed to have lost grasp of the last thread of willpower he had, flinging his wand vehemently onto the ground with a viscous crack, breathing heavily.

"It's over. I was just buying time for myself, time that turns out to be worthless of value, despite what the saying goes," his voice was strangely subdued.

"You don't know that."

"I can't feel anymore, Lupin. If living means surviving in an empty shell void of emotions and memories… I'd rather it be over."

"Don't-" the werewolf pleaded, with a tinge of shudder in his voice as he saw the most determined, stoic man in front of him finally losing hope. It was painful, as if he were witnessing the only reliable pillar of support, the indestructible force of a nation, crumble. Snape did not seem to sense that he was shivering violently, brow tightened into a frown as his lips hung open, head lowered towards the ground as if praying to gain control of his feelings, his sanity, again.

"Did you hear me, Lupin? I can't feel anymore! Make me feel again and then tell me it's not the end! I can't go on like this anymore…"

"Severus!" He grasped his quivering wrists tightly in his own, throwing the last shred of space between them to the heavens above. A tingling chill sprinted up his spine, springing open the eyes that he did not even know he had closed. It was then time stopped for the moment. Where amber shone beast-like into the bottomless obsidian and the space between heartbeats were endless.

He breathed, and their breaths mingled together in the cold winter air.

"Severus," he hadn't meant for his voice to sound so calm, not when his emotions were whirling aimlessly in his being. However, as he lifted a tentative hand to brush against the slightly chilled skin, he could see that his fingers were shaking. Snape stared down at him, all thoughts seemingly dissipated like rising steam in cool air. He let him caress his smooth curvature of his cheek, sliding feather-light over the impossibly smooth skin and resting on the tip of his chin.

"It- it's not the end."

He merely stared back at him, as if gauging the words as he exhaled the breath he had not known he was holding carelessly, the ancient, weathered firmaments suddenly glimmering with the slightest hint of life, of vulnerability.

"It's not the end, not yet," he repeated softly, unable to regulate his breathing, merely taking short, raspy gasps to fulfill his oxygen-starved lungs. He could feel his body heat radiating towards him, his warm breath whispering over his skin, and most of all – his scent, the wonderfully musky tang of spice and musty books with a tinge of clean male sweat. He cleared his parched throat, trying to force out the words that had tangled itself upon his tongue.

"It's not-"

Lupin could see him descending slowly upon his lips, his quickened breath caressing his skin, hovering inches away from the mouth that was now open in anticipation. He closed his eyes yet again, hearing the silvery melodies of the crickets vividly, and then the pounding of heartbeats ringing in his ears. A hand slipped beneath his chestnut locks, releasing a quiet gasp that was immediately hushed by the unbelievingly soft lips that seized his own in a flawless waltz. There was a sudden overflow in his senses, heart straining against his chest so painfully, closed eyes darkening beneath the lids, halted breath as the stray strands of raven locks kissed his cheeks, his lips tasting the salty sweetness of the other's and pulsating in the sensation. He was unaware of how his body was responding with the desire due to the lack of space between the melded bodies, but instead reached towards the small of his partner's back, pushing him lightly towards him and kissing him with such fervour that they barely wanted to pry apart to reciprocate to their lack of air.

But they did.

He drew back the slightest, gazing through the hazed, eyelash-framed half-opened lids at the celestially blurred image his former lover's sharpened features, the touch of lips still lingering upon his own as the cold wind tingled his cheeks, reminding him of the absence of the warmth he had just received in abundance. It took him more than a moment to bring himself down from the clouds.

"Did you feel that?" his voice was husky, low, as if it had not been used often or maybe even used once too much.

The former Potions professor was silent, his swollen lips drawn into a thin line. His eyes betrayed slight emotion, glimmering with sudden life in the sullen darkness. Lupin fingered the loose robes beneath his hand, tracing the angular shoulder carefully as he drew his teeth over his pursed lips, patiently waiting for an answer.

"Tell me, Severus," he finally croaked as Snape lowered his head to gaze at the ground, coaxing him to face him with a gentle finger on his now-scarred chin.

"Please, say something."

The dark-haired man did not answer in words but merely wound his arms tighter around his waist, planting a light kiss on his former lover's silver-streaked chestnut locks, as Lupin did the same to the exposed skin of his neck. The salty tang of tears stung his lips as silent droplets of fear, pain, uncertainty and even happiness wove down the war-torn skin, only to be quelled by a gentle hand on his cheek reminding him that he would never be alone again in his pain. They embraced under the wan moonlight, the heavy silence that bore the anguish of the war, again and again, trying to make up for the lost time, and the time that would be so cruelly snatched away from them.

Lupin basked in the warmth of the embrace, a thing he had not experienced since the rise of the war, unmeasured, unbridled love. He was about to lean in to nibble his earlobe and whisper that it was not the end again in his ear, when Snape flinched violently, his arms leaving Lupin's waist as they flew to clutch at his left forearm.

The Dark Mark had burned again.

In that mere moment, the temporary version of heaven around them crumbled, leaving them standing in the midst of an ominously darkening reality. Unspoken words hovered in the air as the werewolf felt the shattered shards of his heart plunging into his gut when Snape turned back with the look that confirmed his fears. His grasp tightened, clawing into the smooth back like an unwilling child being pried from his mother.

He did not want it to end. He had just told him it would not be the end.

Yet, it had to.

"I have to go," Snape announced abruptly, pushing away from him in a light rustle of robes. The werewolf's hands would not leave the precarious haven of the other's shoulders, but pulled him back instead. He pressed his lips to his forehead then against his shuttered eyelids lightly, trailing feathery kisses down his cheek, banishing the salty tears with the gentlest touch of pursed lips as if trying to single-handedly erase the scars and sorrow that marred his soul.

"Please, don't go," he whispered rather belatedly.

The look in his eyes said it all. _I have lost so many, do I have to lose you again?_

"I'm afraid I have to. It's too late to make amends."

His fingers traced lightly, unabashedly, over every slight curvature of the dark-haired professor's body, from his brow to his robe-clad chest, stopping considerately above his groin, as if memorizing every detail of not merely his being, but every scrap of his soul. Lupin sighed, leaning against his shoulder once more, as if collecting his scattered thoughts. Then, he pushed him away firmly, yet with intense reluctance, stared into the obsidian pools that reflected the moon, and said the last thing he would expect himself to say at this very moment.

"Then, go."

"Thank you and… goodbye."

His appropriate reply would have to be to return his farewell, to wish him good luck in the journey ahead and remind him that his memory would remain forever with him. Yet he merely stared at the figure that was disappearing into the shadows, the wind caressing the light tingle on his hand that still reminisced of his touch.

And then he turned on his heels and strode off.

a/n: Unbeta-ed, so please forgive me if there are any errors. Constructive criticism and reviews would be greatly appreciated. Thank you for your time.

_-triciasama-_

_11th November 2004_


End file.
